


luxuria

by delhuillier



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, the Bruno/Zacharias is only implied, this is the most self-indulgent thing i have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delhuillier/pseuds/delhuillier
Summary: Hríd and Alfonse have a night all to themselves.Alternatively: who knew a prince of ice could be so warm?Edit: added a second chapter of—you guessed it—more sex.





	1. Alfonse engages in some """diplomacy"""

In retrospect, perhaps it is reasonable that Hríd developed such affection for the Askran prince. Alfonse saved his life, after all, but more than that—though younger, Alfonse possesses a peculiarly compelling nobility. Despite the cost to himself, he is determined to do whatever is necessary to protect his country and the people he cares for. Hríd felt drawn to that, he supposes. Impelled to lend his strength to someone so idealistic.

A hand pushes his grey hair out of his face. “You’re distracted,” Alfonse says. “Should I be offended?”

“Rest assured, I was only thinking about you,” Hríd says. “And how magnificent you are, my prince.”

He means that metaphorically—it is rare to find someone like Alfonse, so uncompromising in his morals, so perceptive, so _good_ —and he means it in reference to the now: where Alfonse, divested of his shirt, reclines on the bed beneath him. Hríd watches, appreciative, as Alfonse flushes in response to his words, all the way down to his neck, his shoulders. Every inch the nervous (and yearning, Hríd notes, as he fits his hips more snugly between Alfonse’s legs and finds Alfonse as hard as he) lover on the wedding night, despite them having done this all before.

But there would be no wedding, of course. So they have to take these moments where they can.

Alfonse averts his gaze, embarrassed both by his own embarrassment and by Hríd’s words. “Oh, flattery…”

Hríd settles his hand on one of Alfonse’s well-defined pectorals, sliding the surface of his roughened palm over a sensitive nipple. Alfonse sucks in a breath, and then lets it out with a soft sound when Hríd digs in his nails. “Flattery?” Hríd says. “Fact.”

He offers Alfonse a warm smile, and Alfonse, face creasing for a moment with true emotion, gathers Hríd closer with arms slung around his neck. They kiss, long and slow—and Alfonse is the one to seize the initiative, the one to lick Hríd’s mouth open and slide his tongue between Hríd’s teeth.

Experimentally, Hríd rolls his hips, grinding their erections together, and Alfonse unseals their lips with a gasp. “You scoundrel.”

“I’m the scoundrel?” Hríd asks. He drops his head to graze his lips against Alfonse’s neck, and hums his next words against the beat of Alfonse’s pulse. “But you seemed so...eager. I simply sought to equal your enthusiasm, love.” A scrape of teeth follows a gentle kiss to the delicate skin of Alfonse’s neck, and Alfonse shivers underneath him.

Truly, Alfonse is a precious gem. Hríd will treasure him as he deserves, and will not abandon him as Zacharias did. He will do what Zacharias asked—protect him—and _more_.

Alfonse’s blush deepens ever more, but he’s bolder than before. “There is an order to things,” he says. “Would you not even do me the honour of undressing yourself? Or am I not worth your time?”

Hríd raises himself so he can meet Alfonse’s gaze, and gives him a lopsided smile. “My apologies, then, for getting so ahead of myself. What shall I do next, my prince? Guide me.”

He feels hands settle on his hips, followed by the press of Alfonse’s fingers. Alfonse’s eyes, coloured a blue-grey that recalls the sky during a thunderstorm, make something deep inside Hríd quiver in anticipation through the intensity of their gaze.

“Show me.”

So Hríd does. He sits back on his heels, and one button by one, undoes his tunic. Alfonse, propped up on his elbows now, watches him steadily. The whole of Alfonse is focussed on the whole of him, to the exclusion of all else.

Hríd drops his hands to his sides without removing his tunic. “Would you like to do the honours?” he asks, voice lower than before. “Alfonse.”

Alfonse shifts onto his knees, and comes towards him. Slowly, almost reverently, Alfonse slides the tunic off Hríd’s broad shoulders, down his muscled arms, and then finally sweeps it off to let it puddle on the floor beside the bed. His hot, sulphurous gaze explores the contours of Hríd’s body like a pair of questing hands—and it both excites Hríd and sends a faint ripple of shame through his belly, because his body is far from perfect. The scars spreading across his skin are evidence enough of that.

The Askran prince seems aware of the turmoil of his inner thoughts, because he curls the back of his left hand around Hríd’s neck and pulls him down for another kiss—merely a chaste touch of his lips to Hríd’s, but equally as loving as before. Then he moves to Hríd’s neck, where he puts his cheek against the fist-sized burn scar on the curve of muscle that links neck and shoulder, before kissing it, too.

He honours the other scars in the same way: the mass of tissue splashed across Hríd’s chest, from where a blow from Sinmara buckled his armour. The shadow of a gauntlet on his hip, where Surtr had gripped him before tossing him with unnatural ease across the castle’s burning throne room. Alfonse makes them feel not like badges of shame, but of pride.

Alfonse’s hands follow the trail his kisses leave, stroking here, massaging a nipple here, gliding a callused palm over tight muscles and a defined hip. He moves down until he’s almost on his hands and knees, and his face is between Hríd’s thighs, nearly pressed against the crotch of Hríd’s breeches. He looks up at Hríd from there through his eyelashes, the demon, a question in his pretty eyes.

Hríd, not quite able get out any words, pushes his legs out and apart to give Alfonse more room in response. The wings of butterflies rustle against his insides, as they usually do when Alfonse is slowly undoing him. Hríd takes pride in his strength, in the steel in his bones, but before Alfonse? He yields, and yields, because Alfonse knows how to take him apart, because each kiss and each caress Alfonse gives him—they feel like acts of worship.

Alfonse makes short work of the laces of Hríd’s breeches, and soon he's freed Hríd from the constraints of his smallclothes. For a moment, he cradles the thick, heavy length of Hríd’s cock in his hands (and it’s so hard for Hríd to stop himself from jerking his hips forward to frot against Alfonse’s palms), and then he draws a hot line from its base near Hríd’s balls up to its twitching tip with his tongue.

The fingers of one of Hríd’s hands thread through Alfonse’s midnight-blue hair as Alfonse applies his tongue to the head of Hríd’s cock, and it does not take much time for his efforts to be rewarded with a low moan, rolling up from the back of Hríd’s throat. “Alfonse,” Hríd says, intoning his name like a prayer. “Alfonse…”

Alfonse lifts his head, and there’s a heated pause as he squirms out of his own breeches and smallclothes and then helps Hríd fully out of his. Then they’re both nude, both bared to each other’s eyes. Alfonse is just as hard as Hríd is, though smaller, and not so near spilling come across sheets and skin. But his own completion would come later: Alfonse, his prince, determines the pace of things.

Hríd lasts not much longer under Alfonse’s determined ministrations, and he breaks when Alfonse angles his head up so he can take the whole of Hríd’s cock into his mouth at once. Hríd gasps Alfonse’s name, trying to warn him; but Alfonse, now long-practised, endures, until Hríd’s softening cock slips free from his lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” Hríd breathes. He’s weak and shaky, as though all his muscles were transmuted to liquid the moment he came. 

Alfonse shakes his head, eyes narrowed— _don’t you dare say that_. He hauls himself up, throws his arms around Hríd’s neck and kisses him, fiercely, with semen-slick lips, until Hríd has to break them apart to inhale, mouth filled with the salt-sweet tang of his own come. Alfonse smiles at him, a little devilish, a little nervous, and at that moment is perhaps the most attractive Hríd has ever seen him.

He cups Alfonse’s cheeks, framing the boyish face with gentle hands. “Have I said how magnificent you are?”

“Far too often,” Alfonse says, face reddening once more. Modest, even now.

Hríd’s hands drift to Alfonse’s shoulders, to his sides; they drift over his hips, and land on his buttocks. Hríd squeezes, gently. “Well, then, my prince.” He curves his lips into a smile, and his voice, pitched deeper, acquires a husky edge. “How about you make me yours?”

Alfonse needs not answer; him pressing Hríd down onto his back and fetching the pot of lube they’d found from a discreet merchant is answer enough. This is all a far cry from the first time their affections had brought them together: in the tent after a battle where Alfonse nearly died, still clothed, rutting against each other, clicking teeth and bumping noses in the middle of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Sweaty, filthy, shamelessly lewd.

There’s still sweat, and Hríd wouldn’t say that this _isn’t_ filthy now, but there’s a statelier pace to it. An order to things. They savour each other.

Alfonse slides a pillow under Hríd’s hips and then slicks up his fingers with lube. Hríd obligingly spreads his legs, holding them out of the way with hands hooked around the bend of his knees. One finger makes Hríd tip his head back, eyes falling shut; a second wins Alfonse a soft groan from the prince of Nifl; and when Alfonse, his fingers sunk into Hríd up to their last knuckle, strokes that spot deep inside Hríd and sends a burning lance of pleasure up his spine, the sound Hríd makes is so wanton a blush colours his cheeks from embarrassment.

Alfonse is blushing, too, from the sound—despite all the things he’s done so far that night. “I…” he says, faltering even as he tries for flirtatiousness. “I see I shouldn’t keep you waiting, should I?”

“You shouldn’t,” Hríd says. “Please, Alfonse. I want to be yours.”

So at long last, Alfonse fucks him. Hríd’s body stiffens as Alfonse pushes in—forced to spend so long apart between these nights they take for themselves, he’s forgotten the pain at first, forgotten how much his body has to get used to. But after a few false starts, a few anxious _are you okays_ and _does it hurts_ , Alfonse settles into a rhythm, slow and steady.

They are built too differently—Hríd is taller, more solid, where Alfonse is shorter, leaner, lither—for Alfonse to kiss him comfortably in the position they’re in, but Alfonse makes do. Alfonse makes love to Hríd’s neck and his chest as much as he makes love to him with his cock; he sucks at the sensitive skin above Hríd’s collarbone, and bites lightly at one of his nipples. Hríd’s sure he’ll have many bruises to cover in the morning.

Alfonse’s pace quickens, and Hríd curls his legs around Alfonse’s torso; Alfonse slumps against him, burying his face in Hríd’s chest as he approaches completion. Hríd feels him shudder, hears Alfonse groan his name, and then Alfonse comes with a shuddering cry, filling his belly with warmth. Gods, he missed this—having Alfonse so close. 

They share a moment: they’re both breathing hard, they’re both dripping with sweat, but they lie pressed together, as one. In the depths of that moment, when languid contentment weighs down their limbs and makes them slow and sluggish, Alfonse whispers “I love you” into Hríd’s broad chest.

Hríd takes Alfonse’s face in his hands again, and strokes a thumb across his cheek, the thin, delicate skin under his eye. “I know,” he says, with the softest of smiles on his face. “And I, you, Alfonse.”

But that sweetest of moments does not last forever; sweat turns their skin clammy, and come turns it sticky, so cleaning calls. Hríd hoists himself from the bed (wincing as he does so) and goes to search for towels.

When he returns, Alfonse sits with his knees pulled to his chest on the edge of the bed, staring out one of the wide windows at the clear night sky above. Hríd hands him a towel, which Alfonse thanks him for, and then crawls into bed behind his lover, sagging onto his side as his body makes its protests at his moving around so soon after sex known.

Hríd reaches out to press the tips of his fingers against the curve of Alfonse’s spine, and is admittedly a little pleased when Alfonse shivers at the light contact.

“What’s the matter, Alfonse?” he asks. “You shouldn’t look so sad.”

Alfonse doesn’t answer quite yet; he takes some time to wipe himself down, to put his hair back into some sort of order. Hríd waits, prepared to do so for as long as necessary.

“You’ve stayed by my side,” Alfonse says. “You’ve protected my family at risk of your own life. You treat me better than I ever could have hoped for...and yet…” He turns his head, and Hríd sees his eyes glisten with tears in the candlelight. “Yet we can only have these nights, so far apart…”

He scrubs at his eyes, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Hríd. I know I should be happy now, but I just...I want…”

More. Hríd does too, of course. But Askr needs a prince, and so does Nifl (Hríd had ceded the throne to Fjorm, citing her better temperament). Their hearts lie with each other, but their sense of duty impels them to subordinate that feeling for the sake of their political roles. They know, the both of them, that should they abandon their countries for each other, then neither of them could be truly happy.

Hríd tries to keep his tone light. “I don’t think your father would much appreciate you carrying on with the prince of another country.”

Thankfully, Alfonse takes that as the lighthearted comment it was meant to be. “No,” he says, “I suppose he wouldn’t.”

Alfonse stretches out by Hríd’s side, and Hríd slings an arm around his waist to pull him in. Their legs tangle together, and Hríd inclines his head to kiss Alfonse’s forehead. He says, “Let me tell you something.”

“What?”

“When I met Zacharias, back in Múspell,” Hríd says, “do you know what he asked me?”

Alfonse’s expression creases with confusion, but Hríd can see comprehension beginning to glimmer, like sunlight after a storm, in Alfonse’s eyes.

“He asked me to keep you safe. Not you, as in the Order. _You._ I promised him that—I vowed to him to protect you with my life, because he saved mine. At the time, I did not expect that you would so effortlessly win my heart, but...here we are. And I regret none of it, I'll have you know."

He takes a breath, grateful that Alfonse is still listening, quiet and attentive.

"I suppose what I mean to say is...no matter how long we are apart, I'll still come back to you. I swear it. And this time, it's not because someone asked me to—it's because I love you, Alfonse, and will love you, always. I, too, wish that we could have more time together, but do not the many days spent apart make these nights we _can_ have all the sweeter? I know that's true for me. And I take solace in that."

"Oh, Hríd..." Alfonse fits his head under Hríd's chin, pressing his forehead against the spot where Hríd's collar bones come together. "Thank you."

"I know that we are different, and what satisfies me may not satisfy you," Hríd says, "but I wanted you to understand to strength of my feelings, so that you might put to rest any worries you might have on my account. You are my prince, Alfonse. And if you will have me, I will be forever yours."

"Forever," Alfonse repeats. He brushes his lips against Hríd's chest. "Forever sounds...nice. If only this night could last so long..."

"If only," Hríd agrees. "If only."

It's not long after that sleep comes for Alfonse, and soon it's Hríd's turn. He succumbs without protest, content to doze off in the arms of the person he loves. Morning, and the journey back to Nifl that accompanies it, is far, far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this self-indulgent garbage.
> 
> I wrote this in maybe three or four hours? It's. A thing. The only excuse I offer is Hríd's damn smile in that chapter where we see him for the first time.


	2. Alfonse goes for a """ride"""

They barely make it up to Hríd’s rooms after the state dinner before falling on each other—or rather, before Hríd falls on Alfonse to undo his cravat and pull open his collar so he can lavish attention on Alfonse’s neck. Or to put it more bluntly, so he can return the favour from last time, when Alfonse had left his neck coloured with bruises and the scabs from a few lingering bite marks. He’s rewarded with sweet sounds from Alfonse’s lips, with the press of a hardening cock against the knee he’s pushed between Alfonse’s legs.

“I missed you so,” Alfonse murmurs. His arms wind around Hríd’s waist, and tighten as Hríd investigates where the line of his jaw and neck meet. “We are always too long apart.”

Hríd pauses to undo the next few buttons of Alfonse’s shirt, and trails his fingers along the soft skin he uncovers, from Alfonse’s neck to one of his nipples. He pinches it gently between thumb and second finger, and smiles at how Alfonse’s breathing quickens in response. “I was just thinking the same thing,” Hríd says, at last. “Your insight into my thoughts is uncanny, dearheart.”

Alfonse’s hand closes around Hríd’s, stopping the hand from creeping any further. “And as ever, you are always overeager, you beast.”

Obligingly, Hríd leans in to growl in Alfonse’s ear, to nibble at his earlobe. “Can you blame me?” he asks, the soft sound of Alfonse giggling, both breathless and amused, making his chest clench tight with affection. “I can’t get enough of you. I could just eat you up. Or”—Hríd pulls back, slightly, so he can capture Alfonse’s gaze—“out, as it were.”

“ _Hríd,_ ” Alfonse squeaks. His prince, face cherry-red and eyes wide, has never looked more flustered than at that moment, and oh, it makes Hríd want him even more. Here against the wall, on the floor.

But it’s not just about what _he_ wants, so Hríd backs down. “I’m sorry,” he says, “was that too much?”

Alfonse’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart up to meet Hríd’s, and then away again—ah, curse him, that unintentional coquette. Though considering how often he does exactly what Hríd might like most, perhaps it’s not as unintentional as it first seems; it’s a part he plays just as much as Hríd plays the ravenous beast.

“N–No.”

Hríd smiles. He shifts the knee between Alfonse’s legs and finds that his prince is still very much standing at attention. “No?”

When Alfonse raises his eyes this time, his gaze is steadier, though he is no less red. “No.”

A low chuckle, roughened by the desire pulsing through Hríd’s veins, shows his appreciation. He nuzzles Alfonse’s neck, and says, “Shall I go on, then? Shall I tell you how, once I’ve well prepared you, I’ll take you on your hands and knees on the bed? What a pretty picture that could make—you, my prince, crying out my name as you take every—last— _inch_ of my cock into you. Or would you prefer here, shoved up against the wall? Or maybe we can revisit my couch, which if I recall felt rather...purgatorial the first time you visited.”

Hríd grasps Alfonse’s chin and tilts his head up. “Well, my prince? Tell me. How would you like me to make a mess out of you?”

Alfonse, trembling, presses a hand to his mouth to try without much success to calm his rapid, uneven breathing. He says something that Hríd can’t quite make out.

Hríd bends close. “Hmm?”

Alfonse repeats himself, voice shaky, and Hríd stops, brought up short by what Alfonse is suggesting.

Slowly, he slides his fingers under Alfonse’s hand and pulls it away from the prince’s mouth. He kisses the corner of Alfonse’s lips. “Alfonse,” he says, “that is a fine idea.”

He allows Alfonse to walk him back towards the bed and press him back onto it. Alfonse straddles him at the waist so he can gather Hríd’s collar in his hands and pull him into a deep, tonguing kiss, but far too soon he withdraws, leaving Hríd feeling almost winded. “I’ll be back,” Alfonse murmurs in Hríd’s ear as he palms the bulge in Hríd’s pants. “Don’t do anything while I’m gone.”

“You are so cruel, Alfonse,” Hríd complains, once he’s caught his breath, a childish pout pulling at his full lips. But he’ll do what Alfonse tells him. He always does.

While Alfonse slips into the bathroom to clean himself up, Hríd takes the opportunity to undress. He shivers as his smallclothes glide over the head of his erection and—ah, he aches to touch himself. To glide his thumb over the head of his dick, to spit into his palm and stroke himself, idly, until Alfonse returns.

But then, he would, by his own action, deprive himself of the promised reward. Gods, he remembers the first time Alfonse had ridden him, on that couch he’d mentioned before. Remembers the sight of Alfonse, his head thrown back, so unrestrainedly _loud_ as Hríd rocked him with an upward jerk of his hips.

Despite all his sweet talk from before, they’d not done it that way since, because of how sore Alfonse had been afterwards. Instead, Alfonse took _him_ ; instead, they frotted or sucked each other’s dicks or used any combination of their fingers, mouths, hands to get each other off. But as long as it’s with Alfonse, Hríd loves it.

And, well, he wants Alfonse to feel truly loved. Wants him to feel as though Hríd would never leave him, come hell or high water—unlike Zacharias, or the Divine Summoner.

At least all these recollections—of Alfonse in various states of undress, of Alfonse thrusting into him, of Alfonse’s toes curling as he comes into Hríd’s mouth—are keeping him hard. He props pillows against the pinewood headboard and reclines, naked, against them to await his lover’s return.

Alfonse returns from the bathroom in just his clinging undergarments, holding a container of lubricant and a belt. Hríd’s eyes trail after him as Alfonse pads in bare feet across the floor, climbs onto the bed and comes towards him. With his wet hair slicked back and a lingering few water droplets glittering on his eyelashes and in the hollow of his throat, Alfonse is truly a sight.

The Askran prince holds up the belt. “Hríd,” he says, “may I…? Your hands, that is.”

In response, Hríd raises a narrow eyebrow. His lips quirk into not-at-all-innocent half-smile. “Make me,” he says.

Alfonse takes a breath. “All right,” he says. There’s a look in his blue-grey eyes now, like the charge in the air before a storm.

When Hríd lifts a hand to touch Alfonse’s face, Alfonse grabs his wrist and pushes it back against the headboard, above Hríd’s head head, and suddenly Hríd finds it very hard to breathe. Alfonse’s mouth parts in surprise; he zeroes in on the reaction Hríd is having to the solid strength pinning him down.

“My,” he says, in a low, low voice. Entranced.

Hríd smiles weakly. “You’ve got me all worked up, Alfonse.”

He makes a half-hearted attempt to squirm out of Alfonse’s grip, and the way Alfonse reacts—putting his weight into holding Hríd down, and dragging Hríd’s other hand up to join its fellow—sends a dark thrill rippling up Hríd’s spine.

Alfonse finishes tying Hríd’s hands with the belt he’d brought with him, and then straddles Hríd just south of his dick, planting his knees on either side of Hríd’s thighs. He’s clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on Hríd, if the intensity of the gaze licking at Hríd’s skin is any indication.

Hríd looks back at him, and the light of the setting sun pouring in through the window at the rear of Hríd’s bedroom limns Alfonse in luminous gold. Hríd can’t tear his eyes away.

“You’re beautiful,” Hríd says, in the unconscious way of one overawed. He yearns to caress Alfonse’s chest, curve his hands around Alfonse’s hips; longs to trace out the scars Alfonse has from the war with his fingers—to catalogue Alfonse entire, flaws and perfections both. That old cliché, _actions speak louder than words_ , is true for him. He’s always been better at conveying his feelings through tender, reverent touch.

Alfonse does not deny it, as he would usually—instead, he smiles, like he has Hríd right where he wants him, and that makes something in Hríd roll over, submissive. “I think that word better suits you now,” Alfonse says. “My prince.”

The pet name goes straight to Hríd’s groin. He shifts on the bed, a soft noise of appreciation slipping from his lips, and _aches_ for Alfonse to get on with it.

Alfonse slickens the fingers of his right hand with lube, then plants his left forearm on the headboard near Hríd’s and reaches back to insert the first of his fingers into his ass. No agony could ever be sweeter than what Hríd feels now, only able to watch Alfonse as works himself loose. Hríd’s cock twitches, begging to be touched, to at last be granted release.

As Alfonse starts to add another finger, he leans further down; Hríd tilts his head up to meet Alfonse’s lips with his, just in time to swallow the soft sound Alfonse makes when the second finger goes in. The next few kisses Alfonse gives him are messy, distracted; his lips brush, sometimes light as a feather, sometimes long and lingering, against Hríd’s cheekbone, the ridge of his brow, the corner of his mouth.

“Please, Alfonse,” Hríd says thickly. “Hurry.”

Alfonse smiles. “Patience, Hríd,” he says. “I’m not made of glass, but I can still be hurt.”

A third finger now, and Hríd doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more endearing than the faint shade of determination on Alfonse’s flushed face at that moment—the brow creased slightly in concentration, the lips pressed together. He’s so intent on getting this right.

At last, Alfonse seems to be ready. He slowly slides his fingers free, a low sound bubbling from his lips as he does, and then goes for the lube one more time. Hríd whimpers as the pads of Alfonse’s slick fingers glide, torturously slow, up Hríd’s cock, all the way to the head. Alfonse wraps his fingers around Hríd’s cock there, and then drags his hand down in a stroke just as slow as before.

“Demon.”

The heat of Alfonse’s gaze rivals that of the Múspellflame. “Quite the pair we make, then. Beast and demon.” He raises himself up over Hríd’s cock. “I wonder how much you could live up to that title.”

Hríd swallows, throat dry with anticipation. “Untie my hands and I can show you.”

Alfonse makes a show of considering it. “Not quite yet, I think,” he says, and then, without further ceremony, eases himself down onto Hríd’s cock. He inhales slowly, shakily, as he takes the first few inches; his eyes squeeze shut, his expression draws tight.

“Take it slow,” Hríd says. He’d like nothing more than to caress Alfonse’s cheek, to lay his hands comfortingly on Alfonse’s hips. “Careful.”

Alfonse nods, but doesn’t speak. He takes a deep breath, and drops the rest of the way, sheathing Hríd’s cock in warmth. Hríd’s hips spasm and Alfonse’s back arches as he gasps, a high, near-pained sound.

“Sorry,” Hríd says, fighting to keep his voice steady. Gods, Alfonse is lovely now: his face, shoulders, even chest all flushed a pretty pink, his eyes half-closed, gone unfocussed and hazy. “You all right?”

“Hríd.” Alfonse leans forward to kiss Hríd’s nose. “Stop worrying so much. I don’t break easily. You know that.”

“I do,” Hríd says. He’s utterly charmed. “You _are_ the strongest person I know.”

Alfonse’s hands settle on Hríd’s chest, palms lying flat on his pectorals. He meets Hríd’s gaze and the uneven, dazed smile he gives him wraps its fingers around Hríd’s heart and squeezes so, so tight. “So let me do this for you.”

Alfonse raises and lowers himself once, then again, and again. He finally settles into an agonisingly slow (though appropriate for the theme of that night—leading Hríd on, giving him just enough to keep him excited but not _enough_ to crest the peak of release) rhythm, and Hríd moans.

“Faster,” he pleads with Alfonse. “ _Please_ , Alfonse, you’re _killing_ me—”

In response, Alfonse lifts himself all the way off Hríd, and Hríd whines, a desperate, pathetic sound, as his cock pulls free of Alfonse’s ass. But then Alfonse fits them together again in one smooth movement, and Hríd sees stars. He hasn’t come yet, but he probably soon will.

Hríd doesn’t know how Alfonse has ridden him for when Alfonse slumps forward, tucking his face in the hollow of Hríd’s throat. He’s breathing hard, and sweat glues strands of hair to his pale forehead. He sighs. “Gods, Hríd…”

“How’re you doing?” Hríd asks, controlling himself. “If you want to stop…”

Alfonse shakes his head, and Hríd realises his hands have crept up to loosen the belt around Hríd’s wrists. It doesn’t take long for him to undo the bindings, and he tosses the belt to the floor and pushes himself up again so he can look Hríd in the eye.

Hríd quirks an eyebrow, a silent question.

“I think,” Alfonse says, “it’s your turn.”

Hríd quivers, breathless at the implication. But still, he needs to ask: “How much of a beast would you like me to be?”

“I asked you how much you could live up to that title, didn’t I?”

No more needs be said. “I’m going to move you, all right?” Hríd says, and when Alfonse nods, he tucks his freed arms around Alfonse’s waist, and carefully lifts Alfonse up and off him. He spills Alfonse onto his back on the bed, and takes a moment to admire him—blushing and yearning for Hríd’s cock—before giving his prince what he asked for: rough.

He pushes Alfonse’s legs apart and back, so far Alfonse is nearly folded in half, and shoves his cock into Alfonse again with a snap of his hips. Alfonse tries to say Hríd’s name, but the syllables of it shudder apart into a moan as Hríd accelerates to an almost punishing pace—so he compromises by clinging to Hríd as Hríd fucks him, going balls deep with every thrust.

To every scratch Alfonse gives him, Hríd responds with teeth: he worries at Alfonse’s collarbone, sinks his teeth into the base of Alfonse’s neck, bites at his lips before crushing their mouths together. Alfonse has truly fallen apart; his usual composure has been stripped away, leaving him panting and gasping and overwhelmed by desire.

Alfonse shudders underneath him, and his fingernails dig deep into the plane of Hríd’s back, and his body clenches tight around Hríd—and Hríd kisses him again as Alfonse comes, savouring the groan that thrums against his lips. Hríd’s more than a little surprised (but gratified) that Alfonse was the first to go, and the sight of Alfonse undone, barely able to keep his eyes open, chest sticky with his own sperm, is the last thing Hríd needs to come himself.

He presses close to Alfonse so he can wrap his arms around the prince and push their faces together once again as he approaches that tipping point. His thrusts lose their rhythm, turning jerky and frantic; and after a few seconds, they stop altogether, and the satisfied sound Alfonse makes when Hríd fills him is exquisite.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” Alfonse says, when he’s recovered the power of speech. “I’m a mess.”

“Was not the point of this exercise to make you one, love?”

Alfonse reaches up to tuck some of Hríd’s hair behind one of his ears. He smiles that same dazed, uneven smile he had before, drunk on Hríd, drunk on the sleepiness that always settles on them after sex. “Then you did a fine job of it.”

Hríd grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He pulls out (drawing another low, delicious groan from Alfonse’s abused lips), and then swings off the bed to go draw a bath for Alfonse. When he returns to the bed, Alfonse seems to have slipped into a doze, but he murmurs a quiet protest when Hríd scoops him up and cracks an eye open.

“Hríd, what’s…?”

Hríd lets the sight of the tub answer for him. He lowers Alfonse into it, as slowly and gently as he can, and Alfonse lets out a hiss when the hot water closes over him. Worn out, his prince lolls against the side of the tub, curving his arms over the edge to stop himself from sliding into the water. His eyelids droop, threatening to fall shut again.

“Doing all right?” Hríd asks. He’s eased himself onto the floor by the tub, near where Alfonse is.

“’m tired,” Alfonse says. He opens his eyes fully, meets Hríd’s, and now there’s a frown pulling at his lips. “A little guilty, because I never do anything like this for you, afterwards.”

“Well, I’d be surprised if you could lift me, considering I’m the larger of us two,” Hríd says. “But believe me, you don’t need to.” He cups Alfonse’s cheek, and is thrilled when Alfonse leans into it like a cat rubbing against someone whose touch it likes. “I just like pampering _you_ , my prince. That’s all.”

Alfonse blushes. “Oh,” he says. “That's...I see. Still, Hríd, there must be something I can do...”

“Stop worrying your pretty little head about it,” Hríd tells him, dragging the pad of his thumb back and forth along Alfonse’s cheekbone, a repetitive, comforting gesture. “Just relax. I’m happy if you are, you know?”

“If you say so,” Alfonse says, in a tone of voice that suggests he'll let this lie...for now. But then his expression softens, and he turns his head so he can kiss Hríd’s hand. “I...I love you, Hríd.”

Hríd gives his usual answer. “And I, you,” he says. Then he adds: “I hope I’ve shown that.”

After Hríd helps Alfonse clean himself, they bundle together on the bed, building a warm cocoon of blankets and towels. Alfonse puts himself on his stomach, and Hríd on his side, propped up on an elbow; he rests his other hand on Alfonse’s back, and rubs circles into it with his large palm.

“I don’t think I’ll be walking anywhere tomorrow,” Alfonse says drowsily. “You don’t hold back, do you.”

“Not when you’re involved,” replies Hríd. “But you’ll be happy to know I took it upon myself to arrange the schedule such that none of the events you’re here to witness, as a representative of Askr, start until after two or three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. So…”

“So we can have a morning in,” Alfonse says. He yawns, sleepy and placid. “I...like the sound of that.”

“I knew you would,” Hríd says. “And I do, too.”

But Alfonse has fallen asleep. Hríd watches him for a few more long moments, and then puts his own head down to try to do the same.

A morning in...it’s a pretty picture. There will be sunrise, a languorous awakening. They’ll lie tucked together for hours before finally rousing themselves for breakfast (which Hríd thinks he’ll have servants bring up—he trusts them). They’ll have breakfast in bed; maybe they’ll be sitting up to eat and Alfonse will put his head on Hríd’s shoulder. They’ll kiss perhaps, and then they’ll dress for the day. They’ll help each other with their clothes, like a husband and wife might do. 

With that happy image in mind, Hríd, too, falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really write PWP often, but these two have been an, er, inspiration.


End file.
